the cearig at sea: an opera in two acts

Act I

scene one: the try outs

scene two: the fight

scene three: a winner emerges

scene four: Carina's theme

scene five: the captian's pursuit

scene six: who and what, skuttlebutt

scene seven: no day but today

Act II

scene one: abject pleasures/ come to me

scene two: its always you/ Carina's theme

scene three: the deferment of love

scene four: mutiny

scene five: in death we part

scene six: the captain's pursuit reprised

End.

One day I'll go in the fridge drawer with a knife and grater, sample all twelve kinds in there.

Writing is telling the truth, and I want to tell the truth. Except when I am in the rare position to actually be able to tell it. In that case, I don't want to anymore. Which is also how loving and adventure and Nirvana go.

Instead I will tell a smaller thing, and its the feeling of the grocery store. Here, I watch a girl in the cheese section perusing. She is an unhappy person, who sleeps most days and spends her waking hours on adderal, xanax bars, alcohol, weed, and sometimes cocaine. I love the different kinds of cheese, as does she. I am from T., a well off family. She is from T., a family of millionaires. I watch her for signs of our differences, but that's like trying to tell a human from an android in Phillip K. Dick's novel. Irish white cheddar makes one shape, and something softer makes another. I could describe the red wax and distinct aroma here in detail, but I don't recall the distinct aroma after all. Is there a distinct aroma? And red wax seems to say enough. But this girl, in addition to larger wedges that catch her eye, also selects the smallest square packages to purchase. These are my fav. I always get them, she says. They have a simple black and red plastic wrapping. And after throwing seven in the cart, she looks at the price sticker and sees that each mouthful-size package is three dollars. She laughs and puts more in.

BASEBALL IV

We lost the game, But it was a great game. Slide home. From somewhere else I see my red, round home the way mirrors show Belinda her nose.

What does home mean to you? I’m playing baseball.

No heat, no sun, just breeze enough to fill a field like a balloon, with bits of grass sticking to the plastic. It’s a jam up that everyone likes—like mud on white pants and ice cream glued to your shirt – Home is the baseball field only turned into a collection of stuff that doesn’t move even when it moves, and is mostly in the left hand kitchen drawer Slide that thing open. Days so full, they’re oozing and you want to lick it. God it gets in your stomache then and wont let go. You want to shake it free but free in the way that it sticks around forever. I’m in that drawer too, curled up like a cabbage with the double AA’s and paper clips, watching me swing a bat.

Every house needs a junk drawer.

And we gave it our all, until we couldn’t any more. We went home, then, which

at the bottom of the day is shaded and closed as a cauliflower. Its already evening there, at home

—its ordered alright in ways that things stay if they move but are mostly in the left hand drawer

of the kitchen, where they sit in there but sort of change up how they are. Slide that thing open: looks around with her hungry spider hand or as if a light is stuck at the end of her finger so it rummages in that drawer that’s normally dark but sometimes light. That light could come either from a window—the sun is real, but the window is fake, so are the batteries. In case you wanted to keep track. Home is where the spiders only move to remind you that they mostly don’t. Home is where they cant. I sit still or move, depending on whether the drawer is opened.

Home tends to stick when you try to turn to the next page as if like what the hell these pages are fucking stuck together.

To clarify

Sometimes I think of you, and I miss you, and my eyes water. But thats not really crying.

Thumbelina Adventures

Thumbelina's interests: small bugs, wedge heels, miniture ponies. Female, its complicated (I find the sink rim insurmountable so that I need a floss-thick jungle vine to find the shelf behind the bathroom mirror. As I love myself but cannnot reach my reflection, I'll label that complicated.) Political views, whoever is looking out for the little guy. Religious views? I'll take the God of small things: toenail clippings and spider poop. After all, its not all just poppie petal beds and hickory nut boats here in this shrunken body. Its finding someone with hands small enough and heart big enough to touch me right and say Dont worry, Babe, I'll help you fight off the miserly moles.

Sepulchre. Tabernacle.

These are namura jellyfish.

They will be in my next apacolyptic play.

Also, barfbrains, I love your blog. Thank you.

I could strike out every "post" and stuff them under my seat. I ought to set myself on fire, and run out to the sea.